You know, I''m not sure how I should feel.
Part of me is dragged in sadness at your death,
the other part of me is glad you are not suffering.
These past few years have not been good for you.
What I admired, though, was your resilience.
A strong man with values of another time.
You believed in hope, in a destiny of optimism,
in knowing that, with time, everything heals.
Even though you succumbed to peaceful death,
I know that you are still alive in Heaven's glory.
I wonder if you knew how much I loved you?
Fathers and sons do not tend to mention this.
That stupid man code of not showing emotion.

When I was a little boy, you were a role model.
Though we did not share the same interests,
we did manage to find things to do together.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table,
working together to assemble model cars.
Or when we went for rides to get soft ice cream.
You always told me "don't tell your Mother!"
and I gloried in this tasty secret that was ours.

I cannot even list all the ways you helped me.
As I grew from boy to man, married, children,
you were still my rock which I depended upon.
I'm going to miss chatting with you, talking
about this and that, sharing our time together.
I liked hearing your stories of your early life.
How you met Mom, how you pursued her.
I look at old pictures of you in the 1950's
The Elvis Presley haircut, the sideburns and all.
Those must have been great times for you.

So we have come to the end, how very sad.
I saw you in your coffin, and yes, I wept.
Thinking how much I was going to miss you.
I realize you are with Mom now, a happy place.
You have missed her very much since she died.
Daddy, Dad, I love you. I will always do so.

I think I am ready now.
Ready to go when I must go.
      Not that I am seeking it.
      Nor do I wish it to be soon.
I'm ready, though, very ready.

Spirits come and go. They fashion
    themselves into relationships.
Relationships that are
never more than temporary.
Hands holding hands,
    letting go, moving on.

I will move on as well.

Time is up to God, not me.
      If He calls me, I'll go.

So it is a circle thing,
      birth to the grave.
A slowly eroding body
      with a living soul.

I'm ready to meet death.
Perhaps not to welcome it,
      rather, resigned to
        cease to be.

At some point
      in the future,
        think of me.
Maybe I'll be the
      tiny voice inside
        comforting you?

Just let go.
You always have a choice.
Go left, go right.
It's up to you.
Worry not about
insignificant vowels
that dangle
like earrings
around you.
Take them off.
Put them away
in your secret cabinet
where every
unpleasant thing
should be put.
Just be.
Enjoy the moment.
Pick up the foul
pieces of garbage
and throw
them out.
Let them go away,
be gone from you.
Look no further
for miracles and
revelations.
These are already
within you.
One must just
breathe softly
to discover them.

Does he still see the flavours
of the waves that bounce
against the sands?
The grains dissipate
from the stroking
of the water.
His face is turned inward,
his thoughts circling
around nothing defined.
Shifting from questions
to faulty solutions,
the sounds of
impatience dropping
like
iron
bars
on
the
floor.
It does not help
that the lake
is littered with
the residue
of humanity.
In wonder, his
hands drop
to his side.
They become
extensions of the
failed dinner plans
and wasted intentions.
Mocking seagulls
fly shamelessly
over his head.
He considers
the direction
of
his
useless
meandering.
Time to leave.
Let the sand
handle
its'
own demise.

A faded picture is in my wallet.
Shows me young with 1970's hair.
I think it was a school photo?
Looking at it, I am struck sober
with how long ago that was.

Dandelions and weeds have
taken over the sanity asylum.
Morphine and other narcotics
is creasing my worrying head.
"They'll help you," I was told.
I question this medical wisdom,
for how helpful is being dulled?

A new normal has been defined.
A far different place from the
marching drums I beat before.
Now, I tap on the coffee table,
amazed I can even do that much.
Sitting in a chair, internally busy
with the picture of this boy.

"Young man," I want to scream,
"be careful of what is to arrive."
The tingling of cancer cells
are on the road you'll travel.
Failing thoughts that mingle
with the fading, dying sun.
Miracles of disposed relics
left on the table like charms.

Clutching Rosary beads and
mumbling the comfortable words.
I put the picture back inside.
Do not want to see it anymore.
He is me, I am him, obviously.
This crinkling comforter of cloth
wrapped like life around me.
His eyes are not as sad as mine,
this is what I deeply noticed.

Your textile face strong
      as a white feather.
Determination set in
      neatly labelled crayons
      lined up on the table.

We named the colours together,
      with the casual manner
      of having a life of time.

There was harmony once.
Spontaneous laughter that
      filled the cathedrals of
      our happiness.

Drifting off to sleep
       with the sounds of
      our favourite movie
      ringing in my ears.

I remembered
knocking on your door
when I first met you.

I listened to my favourite Beatles album.
Closed my eyes as the harmonies glistened
           in my ears.
Remembered when I bought the album, the LP.
      Sign of my old age.
I miss those days. I miss not being tired,
      uncomfortable, disorientated.

I watched a man nearly die today. He lay
        in a bed near to mine.
Apparently he felt the luxury of ingesting
      who knows what illegal drugs.
Foolish man.
Stupid man.

I almost wish he could trade places with me.
That he could feel the aching of disease.

That is what this is. A disease. An abhorrent
series of bad growing like weeds in a garden.

      If they pull the weeds,
      if they are successful,
      I'll change lots of
      choices I've made.

Choices. There's a thought! To be free again
        to make choices.

I have none now. I'm victim to the needs to
      cure the body.

A nurse mentioned to me that faith was
      an important factor
      in the healing process.

"Of course", she said, "I personally don't believe
      in God."
And I thought,
    "Ah, another person
    with the luxury of choices.

Was so glad to get home. To put on this album, this CD.
    That's the modern term.

This disease is my enemy, my rope around my neck.
      It does not
      care
      how
       beautifully
    John, Paul, and George
     harmonized.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

Summer is happening.
People are complaining
about the heat and humidity.

Air conditioners are conditioning.
Aeroplanes are flying overhead.

Other people are occupied with
their own dramas and situations.

Me, I am just being quiet. Not
looking to talk with anyone.

I am thinking of how matter of
fact the Doctor was when he
shared his professional opinion.

As if he was talking about the
hot summer weather; as if
the temperature was crucial.

I listened to every word he said.
Shook his hand and thanked him.

Strange how we fall so easily
into the habits we've been fed.

I count the grass on the ground.
I count the clouds in the sky.

I will never reach the end.
Will I ever reach the end?

Will I be sitting here, next
summer, counting anything
at all? What do the clouds
do when the grass turns
brittle and darkly brown?

(A Poem based on Ex.3:1-6)

I looked into the flames and I asked "Who are you?"
"I Am!"
And I cried out "Who is going to save me?"
"I Am!"
And I wept "Who is going to conquer
My slavery to sin and darkness?"
"I Am!"
And I said "Who is faithful
Even though I fail?"
"I Am!"
And then I asked "Who is the father of mercy
Who sends His son to die
That I might live?"
"I Am!"
And the bush did not burn,
and I did not die!

When blue turns to grey,
walk gently into the fog.
Let the dimness open
the
avenues
of
renewal.
We are all circling
the same decisions.
Bleeding with the blood
of our ancestors in our veins.
One connected road
that
is
populated
with
similar
beginnings.
The end for each
is the only
different journey.
Circle the wagons
and
draw the blinds.
Enter the secrets
of
a million years.
This cleansing is
quenching
the
breaking
wood.
Enclose the pictures
of other scenes
into the frames
of
grabbing
snares.
Trapped. Locked in.
Nothing can
drive
the
doubt
away.

I just want answers.
I just want answers.

Oh my soul. I do not know what to do.
My heart, it is held hostage in this game,
Of hoping,  waiting for shadows that grew.
Of excitement for feelings I can name.
I am a searcher seeking to posses.
One soul that I can mould into my own.
One heart that I can keep without a guess,
Of what she sees when she is not alone.
In soft mercy I hope for what is mine,
Shall grow and develop into our love.
For this is the seeking which fills my time;
This is the mystery that I speak of.

Oh my soul. How gently I see you  peek
at the wonderful passion I do seek.

The hardest part is the night.
Movie on, volume low, as I try to sleep.

Trying is not doing.

Pretend the city traffic sounds
are sounds of other people
trying to sleep. Each, in
our own way, as hopeless
as the other. They are
wondering where the
other cars are going,
and so am I.

Where do we go? Where,
if in fact, we never leave
the places we are at.

Turning, Tossing.
Eyes closed. Brain open.

A man is shouting on the street.
Words indistinct, but anger
clearly present. Why do
we get angry so easily?
Why can we be so
flippant and intolerant?

Hiding. Bodies, masked
in faces of temporary smiles.

What are the wishes,
the requests, of the
smiles driving the cars.

If I had one request. One
magic wish to use above
any others. It'd be to
sleep peacefully in
the pattern of the night.

He steps outside his house: does
not scream his defiance: therefore
not the portrait his long legs suggest.
Speaking mumbles to lawn ornaments
who see him only with painted eyes.
Ears forever closed: he does not
understand the silence. He prowls
in steps of measured distance:
waiting for the rain to tumble.

When it comes, it comes in trembles
of resistance. He understands he
must never get wet: must continue
to dry his towel under the dew of
morning. He paces the sidewalks
opening his ears to the fruit of
flapping leaves. In minutes he will
glow with the safety of ceasing to
exist: time transforming his created
distances. There are always static
murmurs which tingle his shallow skin.

Morning finds the wind beating softly
                           against the rising sun.
Wraps my scarf around my neck
                       as I watch the squirrels
dancing on the hydro lines.
They do not feel me watching them.
The spinning shade hides my presence.
My thoughts have finally reached
                   decisions of withdrawal.
The forgotten distance everyone
will become is some sort of comfort
              as I stretch my arms towards
              the infinite eye of surrender.
Nothing changes in an atmosphere
                 of constant repercussions.
Just like the hiding moon,
                  all of the doors are both
                              open and closed.
I will only state my point of view
          to the hollow shadows that
speckle like underwear wrapped
             too tight against the body.
Somewhere a siren is wasting time
               blasting its noise against
            the heat of the rising day.
Inside my ears I also hear
the angry words of so many
                        different tongues.
It is a struggle to keep
my composure, for I want
         to scream my anger back
                                      at them.
But this would be useless gestures
of compliance. It would be
giving in when I already have
            decided to give up instead.
Even the sky seems to walk
                              away from me.

Transparent seconds tick away,
mumbling their progression.
Filtered cigarettes and coffee,
both staining fingertips.
Enough time has passed,
yet still sober thought
circulates in such a way
that I do not feel the blades
of the fan in the room.
A facade has been erected.
A sort of wall, a kind of defence.
Pretending that limitless
possibilities are open for me.
Privacy I once cherished
is a memory no longer
active in the daily reactionary
tones of being in this prison.
In and out, and out and in,
the professional experts
affirm and stipulate the
terms of my existence.
Prodding, touching, measuring.
Advising, compelling, warning.
Their repetitious bleating
draining the spirit.
I glance with longing
at the passageway of doors,
knowing that all but one
is locked and firmly sealed.
Hope. Yes, have hope.
Be the glass half full,
but acknowledge that
is is also half empty.
Somewhere in between
the two points of view
lies my truth.

In truth, he was an unflavoured soul,
a vessel of despair fashioned in clay.
A misfit of intense and wild emotions,
that fled the world, gone astray.

He created his own sheltered universe
from which he built a life of fear.
Running, fleeing, his reality of disgrace
which had defined his growing years.

Poor orphan child, a stranger to respect,
who satisfied himself in his own eyes.
Travelled like an ant away from the hill,
to seek his space, to avoid hidden sighs.

The flesh can burn, the soul can wither
like an empty cup left alone on the table.
This he knew, for this was his existence.
A world weary, tired, emotionally unstable.

And if he let a sleeping tear escape
from untrusting eye that blinked in pain,
he knew that strangers would object
to any thought that he might complain.

Poor orphan child, man of no respect,
who drifted like a leaf in a summer wind.
His face a mask of tolerated stone,
which hides his constant sense of sin.

What would his salvation prove to be?
Oh soul, what is your purpose and plan?
He would not know, he would not see,
for little of reality did he understand.

Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

Tasting the quiet, with only
an inaudible sense of deferential
nothing. I tiptoe fondly
into the gardens where
grows the leaves
of other times.

Like a lullaby without words,
I'm taken here and there,
in many and all kinds of
situations. Teasing
sighs from benign
retrospective
endearments
insist on
understanding.

"Wrap me in your arms,
oh delicious memories",
This I proclaim in
honest wonder.

Every second lived
is one more step
in strong direction.
Familiar guises
prodding and guiding
the footsteps
of release.

I am concerned
only with empty
pockets and lint
left like
photographs
of times both
then and now.

So to new days
and impressive
meanderings
do I linger,
ever glad.

Bloated tables littered
with avarice, greed and worse.
We're dying here, you know.
Locked down in this
unrealistic point of view.
Reaching up,
we are slapped down.
Reaching down,
we are pulled up
so we can
begin
the
stone weight again.
Gasping to speak
but
afraid
to say
what we cluster
in our hearts.
Deny the truth.
Play black chess pieces
willingly against the white.
Win or not, we
always lose.
Plopped like pimples
into
secondary
roles.

Hush.
I think I hear something.
Oh yes, I know that sound.

It is the dragging of chains
across
the
ground.

The boy was silent, thinking that he blended
Into the turbulence of mangled continuity.
He stayed silent, not a soul befriended.
Diverse emotions raging, so not free
To truly understand the kindness of
Lashing laughter that became his manner
Of hiding behind self-inflicted fences.

His weary eyes belied innocence pretended.
Young in age, old in scorned indifference.
Despite the hairless body, childhood ended.
For he was well aware of how to be tense
In sterilized situations of lengthening despair.
The internal bleeding was ever flowing
In his gathered depths of wasted anger.

Voices that should have been of comfort
Were instead knives piercing his heart.
In perfection they circled him like a shirt
Of mangled wolves ever ready to start
The game of destruction of his perceptions.
Ah, they would not let the boy surmise
The potential merit of his future daze.

Such propped up limbs of uncertainty
Had become his manner of survival.
In glances of fear, his trembling trees
Shook with passions of hateful denial.
And though he hoped for love of self,
He was in truth, and in manner of life,
accustomed to resentment provided.

Small surprise that as he grew older
He buried reality in cages of disbelief.
Like a pearl, he wrapped himself colder
Visions of how he might obtain release.
The boy would age in terms of years
having learned to submit to disapproval.
Such would be the chains he adopted.

Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.
Never let a
moment go by
when lips
may pray.
Over and over
the same
hoping clings
to the heart.
Is it even
worth the effort
to carry on
with the words?
I think these
shall be my
final statements.
My ending, my
time to stop
the fingers from
typing. There
is only one
joining left
to explore;
that of me
in new places,
absent from
the world.
Soft snow
caressing fingers
on a January day.
Fingers stroking
prayer beads
as the thoughts
burn inside.

I watch the foul blood
drain from my wounds.
Clean it from my skin.
Apply a band-aide. Pray.

I watch them take blood
from my arm to test.
They do not flinch.
I do.
It is their job.
It is my life.
Different perspectives.
Different views.

I listen to doctors' talk.
Telling me what to expect.
I hear the words,
the serious words.
The words spoken
in formal empathy.

Mouldy bread,
left in a plastic bag,
has a very peculiar odour.
It smells of decay,
of wasting away.
Strong hope
now
scattered
and
left
undone.

I watch the blood drain.
I watch the yellow ****
flow out with the red.
Diseased tissue.
Diseased flesh.

I will hear nothing more.
Wipe the mess away
with
a
tissue
paper.

Holding on.
Not been a good week.
Aches and pains.
Disappointment and more.
Writing a Will.
Editing the Will.
Thinking about death.
Do I want to wait,
or should I select my
own time?
Suicide is a sin.
Purgatory no doubt.
Holding on.
Back to square zero.
Last weeks' optimism fading.
No, not fading, rather, faded.
Gone.
Ended.
Hitting mental icebergs
and creating
desperate images
Circle of life.
Circle of death.
Cycles really.
Metamorphosis.
Even butterflies
expire from the
drama of living.
Flicker like smokestacks
that expel black smoke.
That is me. Black smoke,
and a bucket of tumours.

Ah, the new day displays
       such cascading colours.
Eternally fostering hopeful glances
in the direction
        of tomorrow.

We are victims to our needs
     which makes us greet
each day with sun-glassed eyes.

In trust, we burn our souls
        in ever-glowing flames
of socially acceptable conversations.

Ah, how easily we perform our
          mundane tasks.
Creating swirling metaphors
to disguise our lack of direction.

Pretending that the sunlight is
          our brilliant guide
to new avenues of pleasure.

We are yes and no at the same time.
Neither aware nor absent from
        our cups of steaming liquids.

In confusion, we solicit understanding
        from the telephones that never
cease ringing in the shallow
        shadows of our empty minds.

Ah, the new day displays
       such cascading colours.
Eternally fostering hopeful glances
in the direction
        of tomorrow.

Graves are filled by bodies
      that used to be people.
Decomposing flesh
  that litters the bottom of the coffins.

Do not visit my grave.
      I will not be there.

Instead, imagine me in the room
      where you are sitting.
Talk to me, if you want.
I'll answer in the wind chimes
      that ****** in the breeze.

I shall remind you
      that I love you.
That you meant something to me
      and I appreciated your presence.

I shall touch your heart
      with remembered conversations.
Wonderful words that will
      echo like bells in the silence.

Do you think death
      will make me forget you?
No. It shall not.
I will caress you with my
      zig zagging spirit
that will
stay with you long after
      my body is gone.

The priest will intone his prayers.
      The casket will be blessed.

Significant gestures that should
      bring comfort to those gathered.

Afterwards.
Look around.
I'll be wishing love
      on everyone.
Smelling the funeral flowers
      that lie upon the newly laid dirt.

Imprisoned.
Captured.
Nowhere to hide.

Lonely, creeping dangerously close to sanity.
Imprisoned in my death like a ***** sheet.
Stranded and abandoned in the solitaire of life.

Why do we sit here and hurt each other?
Why stand in dirt and speak of mud?

Impostors slandering their good names with faeces.
Dribbling lunatics on edge, mimicking normality.

Let me dive into the water.
Let the water cleanse me.

I wait there.
I cringe.

Vampires of dying myths float with self.
Helpless in the skin, helpless in the mind.

Wounded chaos dripping in exclusionary
streets of pretense and disillusionment.

I see into myself.
Marooned in a chalking of deceit.

You lied to me, I lied to you.
Everybody lies and denies.
We are collected together in
the aquarium of our silence.

I sleep.
I awake.

I open and close my eyes in the screaming
stupidity of hoping to wake up tomorrow.

And so, again,
       the morning
        erupts
         upon a lingering realism.

Blankets wrapped securely
around my thinning body.
Here in this bedroom, this sanctuary.
This refuge from cold winds
that soothe me as I hide.

Yes, the window
       is slightly open
        to let in
         a bit of fresh air.

At last
these considerations
of what must be
in the days ahead
focuses me on the
certainty of my essence.

Even so, I am
comforted by the
open window and
the bedroom that
removes me
from self-absorption.

Brown eyes - waterfalls.
    Drips and drops of H2O.
Sad life - rain clouds.
    My oh my - the night is lonely.

Raindrops - glistening in the
      glow of the moon.
One man - walking,
      working out his
        contradictions.
Lone man - brown eyes.
     seeing into his
       own reality.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

Sleeping - he walks in
      night dreams.
Creating images of himself
     to present to the world.
Distance - endless wandering.
     What circles lie ahead
       for him to draw?
He walks in silence,
     remembering the sunshine
       that once filled the day.
Brown eyes - intently thinking,
     directing the energy
       he wants to have.

      My oh my - the night is lonely.
      My oh my - the night is sad.

"I was once alive!'
a dead man cries at the heavens;
raising fist with impatient gestures.
The clutching of the fingers,
      the breaking of the bones.
The heavens open up
      to the evil we do.
Bloodshed from wars,
      bloodshed from illnesses.
The Blood of Christ given
      and
       yet
        disregarded
"I know only living!",
the solitary man demands.
But the circle of life
      has been drawn.
The fate of certainty
      proclaimed and published.
Alleluias and amens
      flock like napkins
       folded into place.
Winds scour the sky for axioms
as weeping Mary floats her prayers
through vibrant songs of heavenly protection
Be still hurting flesh.
      The pain shall pass,
       the misery will vanish.
"I once was alive!"
he moans as his skin
explodes in tumours.
Victim to stigmata dreams
     and
      a
       hearse
        travelling
         in
          purposeful
           direction.

Lord, make me a vacant basin,
one that is to be congested with You.
Grateful for each day given me.
Thankful for ever blessing acquired.
For though this body, Lord, is
decaying and terminally corrupted,
it is my essence given by You
that is forever my place of living.
Let me remember the struggles,
along with the triumphs, that
You have given out to me.
For though earthly experts
claim but a certain amount of time,
I know they do not realize that
time exists only in this realm.
Forever Jesus, forever. This is
what You have opened for me.
Let me arrive with a happy heart
into the Kingdom You proclaimed.
I am scared, but not of Heaven.
I fear the pain and the unknown.
Will it be a long slow dying?
This I do not know. With this
in mind, I prepare myself for
whatever it is I must endure.
Knowing that You will be there,
both the in the process and
in the beginning of the new life.
Lord, these are but words I
write to express my thinking.
They attempt to capture the
introspection that seems to
now be the centre of this phase.
I offer them up for Your ears,
knowing they will be understood.
In this malignant community,
of which I have citizenship,
the months are carefully counted.
The day will come, yes it will,
when the last breath will signal
my sudden awakening to You.
Lord, may I be ready.

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

Cares and sorrows
    may last for the
     rest of my life.
I will not lose faith.
    I will not succumb
     to be one of the sheep
      following a path
       away from God.

Like a child,
     I will submit.
Prepare myself
     to be with Him.

When they close
    the lid of my coffin,
     it will not define me.
It will not matter.
    I will not be in
     the carcass they
      will mourn over.

Fear not that some
    will weep for me.
Or that others
     will proclaim
      I am with death.
I shall be with Christ.
    Jesus summons me,
     so to Him I shall go.

As the clouds gather
     in the skies above me.
As the shadows fall
     on this momentary
      place of suffering.
As the sun and moon
     travel in their
      day and night rituals,
       Christ will be with me.

I fix my eyes not
    on what I can see,
     for that is temporary.
I shall embrace
    what is unseen,
     for that is eternal.

Christ in the morning.
    Christ in the afternoon.
     Christ as night falls.
      Christ in all time zones.

I am reconciled
    with the fate
     pronounced upon me.
      I am ready
       for what is to be.

He is stronger
     than the cancer cells,
He is triumphant
     over my illness.

It is what it is.
It will be as it will be.

Christ in my prayers,
      Christ with me.

Life has nothing to show more fair;
Than soul who creates fantasy inside.
Oh tortured heart how it does cringe
At words flung easily at mind so bare.

This mouth now will say nothing more,
Of rumpled sheets left soiled and torn.
Of slipping hope so quickly dashed;
Gripping pain left tossed upon a floor.

Glitter diamonds are the lights seen,
The hopeless path of worshipped sun.
Oh merciful knife come slice the heart,
Let blood flow where love has been.

Dear Lord, do you know this pain?
Have you seen black as I have seen?
Wasted words upon an uncaring eye,
Who only wishes the end to remain.

The river of life ebbs slowly past;
The ever dropping sound of pain.
Oh sweet glistening ending thoughts,
That open avenues that never last.

I cry out in frustrated angered words,
But little sense is made of dusted heart,
Whose images cascade into despair.
Oh silent cries that are never heard.

Release me from the vibrant rolling hills,
Let nothing steep stop us from falling.
Sleeping passion that has gone unknown,
In hearts defeated, yet hurting still.

Concrete shadows that attract
unhappy hearts. Miserable rats
rushing about in dispensary mazes.
I hear the chuckles of the silence.
Does it mock? Does it understand?
Freshly tinted hate turns darker
on broken promises never sustained.
I grapple with standing guard
over the legacy of my ending life.
To leave what behind? Trinkets
and baubles to amuse the rabble?
Things. Just things. Things collected
and things saved. I shall promise
some of these things to the remaining
hands that loved me in my time.
Over in another thought, where I
allow my eyes to open in wonder,
are the forces of resentment that
channel from the brain. What time
does the end begin? What will be
my final thoughts? Oblivious
perhaps, to the jungle around me?
Or aware only of the presence of
God as He takes me to my new home?
Maybe looking back, I shall only
be free of the pressure and pain?
This would certainly please me.
Uncertainty is a price that is paid
when certainty has been forgotten.
Too many rambling words get
misplaced in meaningless gestures.
I hold myself ready. I am resolved.
Defeated but victorious. Pleased
to dwell in celestial images of
beautiful places still to visit.
Do not worry too much about
the solitary walker who is on his
way to the destiny he must achieve.
Life is a process. This I believe.
Death, but one of the stages.

Thinking to myself,
in the dudgeon of my
      honest introspection,
that sunset comes regardless
      of contemplation.

Sunset does not matter.
      Sunset won't appear,
      no matter how far off
        it seems to be.

Each day blurs into
      a sameness that
        is so predictable.
I brush my hair
      with determination,
        ignoring the grey
          that is there.

Age is a state of mind,
      the foolish say.
Perhaps so?
However, the body
      may disagree.

Each day a blurring
      of nodding heads in
        kaleidoscope resentments.

Sunset hints at its' coming.
      Shadows filtered
        by bludgeoned space.

I am alone.

I heard the hissing of the snake
before I felt the fangs pierce the night air.

Fibreglass boats and lemonade stands.
Blinking lights and trembling hands.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.
Beginning, ending. Ending, beginning.

We have such a variety of words
defining the extremes, but what of
the in-between? The middle?

What happens between A and Z?
Between now and than?

That is what I forget about
as I feel the poison become me.

A grey day -
Sure, a fine soft morning -
wet on the wind with rippling circles
that dimple the overnight puddles.
Misty rain lacquers the fallen leaves
to glow under sodium light
and washes asphalt paths
to tarry blackness.
The waking city stirs.
The early cars rush by,
anxious to head the traffic jams,
before the parking place is filled;
while little dog sniffs among the leaves
and praises God by being.

I wander through primordial moments
when the tapping of a keypad
becomes the substance of
standing on the floor naked.
****** is truth.
It is when the fabrics bought
from corporate stores no longer
disguise your carcass truth.
I find myself yelling like a
wounded animal dying.
Pretending that the icicles
shoved into my veins
are only secret encounters.
Nobody notices the contradiction
of white flesh dripping blood.
I hug the eggshells of words
that will not be silenced anymore.
They are my words. My truth.
Unlike the falsehoods that will
be contained in my obituary.
Vacant phrases that shall inform
of the dates and people connected
to my worldview. I shall not be
allowed to edit the content. Exposed
like a rock left on the grass.
Pick me up. Digest me. Tell
stories of things I did, embellished
as stories told tend to be.
In my coffin, I shall be naked
underneath the clothing. My
truth will be not be set free.

We are all **** bodies
fearful
of
confronting
our
truth.

O God,
look into my heart,
uncover my desires, and read my secrets.
Hear what I cannot put into words.
Purify me through your spirit
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.
O God,
I've been wrong and I've been right.
I've been the centre of it all
and I have been totally ignored.
Let me never ignore You,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
seeking me always as I try
and avoid You. You know my
intentions even before they are intended.
Help me to be pure,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

O God,
how many words have been sent
towards You? Empty words and silly
words. Desires and petitions for a
better life. Drifting and collecting
agreements and disagreements.
Open my thoughts,
that I may, throughout this day,
more perfectly love and praise you.

Fish swim in the sea, I've heard.
Ice forms in the winter time.
Clouds cover all of the earth,
and
every day is a blessing.

Opening eyes is the first battle.
If won, it's a victory indeed!
We only have
this one moment,
and
that is really
enough for anyone.

I touch the dirt,
the dirt refreshes me.
Realizing that it
is a
good world
most of the time.

Fingers snap as I
walk casually in the light.
Enjoying the calm
that comes
from
being.

If I stand on my head,
view my surroundings
with a different
awareness; I'll swallow
the air as it
circulates
around me.

Yes, there are problems.
Bad health and nasty thoughts.
Dank walls sweating
with the turmoil
they've contained.

But these are just
flashes of discontent.
Emblems of survival
that are
only as
strong as I make them.

Best to look for
things that make me glad.
Growing like a
piece of grass
surrounded
by a world
of colour.

I think I hate the intrusion the most.
The picking, prodding, sticking things
into arms. Ouch! Go away already.

Take off your clothes. Put on your
clothes. Stand there. Sit here. Do
as we say. We're helping you heal.

Privacy is an illusion. It disperses
as quickly as leaves fluttering in
a wind-storm. Transient, unreal.

Close eyes. Remember. Recall.
Don't let the dropping stones
obscure where I've come from.

It will come, you see, whether
one agrees or not. It spreads
regardless of my religion.

I despise the invasion of
my body. The doing things
to. The freezing and testing.

Touch inside. Pretend the
poking fingers are normal
events. Just another laugh.

Late. Dark. Lying in bed
watching a movie. Half
attention paid. I'm afraid.

He stops his feelings.
They ******* his beams of light.
"Pretend", he exclaims, "just pretend."
That the children have not gone,
or
that
his
marriage fell apart.
"I will not be a spectre of
fallen expectations." he
moans to the skies.
Groaning tissues mutate
into flagons of bitter brew.
Next
comes
the
message.
"I will not hear it."
He is firm in his plan.
Determined in his goals.
A man is a man if he
provides the guise of strength.
Who has ordained this?
Broken eggshells
scattered about him.
His testament, his truth.
"Am I forgiven?"
he asks in bewilderment.
Forgiven by friends, and family,
for
every transgression
completed.
Backwards are fables
mingled with
lost causes.
Resentments.
Forward is
amphibious,
not negotiable,
set in iron.
"I will stay forever
travelling
in the stars
above my head."
This his proclamation.

Now he can rest in peace.

The crucifix on the wall
invites me to my favourite passage
from the Blessed, Sacred Scriptures.
In Saint Matthew our Lord's words
are shared in the Sermon on the Mount.

Reading them brings such peace
to the jumble of emotions I trend.

I wonder why these poignant words
have not penetrated into this world.
Seems odd that such wisdom and truth
is left aside as we pursue other goals.

Graves are dug in the mind, yes they are.
That's where the truth begins and ends.

Ignorance exists with point of view,
and nothing exists without attitude.

We grasp at straws and eat the filth
that permeates from our advanced lies.
Stop in at Mass, only when it suits us
and only when we feel it is necessary.

Hear the Gospel, nod at the sermon.
Check our watches to see the time.
Line up to consume the Body of Christ,
running out after back to our deceits.

In the softness of the mid-day world
I read the words of our Sacred Saviour.

The message compels me to understand
in how many ways I have wasted energy
as I've flickered and formulated over
the insignificance of mundane worrying.

Now that a time limit has been suggested,
it seems time indeed to remember that
if salt loses its flavour, how shall it be
seasoned? This is a thought to consider!

Our Father who art in Heaven, come
into my walk and lead my feet to You.

His brown eyes open,
absorbing every experience
that has been his to know.
A looking back, sorting
mangled bolts of history.

His story. His remembering.

With dying hands he strokes
the threads that have
unraveled around him.

He blinks, and he lets
a single teardrop glisten
on his lived in face.

There are miracles and
there are no miracles.

Either way, the prognosis
is what it is. He knows
everything he knows
and yet he
knows almost nothing.

Tall buildings and concrete streets.
City traffic on major roads.
People. So many people
occupying the urban sprawl.
In the midst of all this he
speculates on any number
of significant resolutions.

How cold his heart feels!
How resigned and dark
are his thought patterns!

With gratitude, perhaps,
he reminds himself that
one thing often leads
to another. There is
neither rhyme nor reason
to what is to come.

And when the droning
that inhabits his thinking
becomes too loud to hear,
he can shut his eyes.
Close them tight.
Let his eyelids be
his entire world
and
sit
like
a
rubber
hammer
banging
nails
into
his
heart.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
The frustrated yearning for a different fate.
The faltering step in this walk of life.

For living is all that I know, yes indeed.
And though I know of sacred places,
where God resides and there is no pain,
still with humility I want to stay here.

The darkness of the fingers that stroke
like feathers upon the grasping eyes
opens this unexpected falling water
on this face, this older face of mine.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
This bitter resentment against the body
that can be so welcoming to disease.

For the mind still thinks, yes it does.
Remembers too, perhaps even worse?
It has captured, and captures, events
that has filled its grey to bursting.

Forever is such a long term release.
A word, a thought, that trickles
like the tears through a broken
cup left alone on the old table.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
Bitterness, rage, and despair, are the
words that force themselves alive.

For here in the world is where I
have found so many special people.
Their weeping shall be added to mine,
or so this is what I have imagined.

There are so many more poems
to write, and a great many more
to be read. So many creative pieces
to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

And now comes the weeping, at last.
It begins with a memory and slithers
down until it is a force all its' own.

And now comes the truth, as it will.
Humbly disguised as caring hands.
Let the rain begin in these eyes.

Aeroplanes fly
at great speed.
Inside their metal bodies
resides colonies of humans.
Side by side they sit,
lying to each other
about their lives.

Every stone that
lies on the ground
has its own story.

Every diamond
is fashioned from
lumps of coal.

All the Kings horses
and all the Kings men
are not able to change
the inevitable.

Black skies hide
the rotting yearning,
the plunge into
that shallow space.

I live here.
Coloured liquid
pours from my
aching thoughts.

I drop pretending
so fast, one would
imagine it never
was there at all.

Sit beside me.
We shall fly together.
Echoes following
every strangled sigh.

Touching the shallow,
we can speak of
people known and
people forgotten.

Struggle in separate shells
as we attempt to bond
in contemporary fashion.

Should I tell you
that they have told me
I am dying?

I think not.
That would cause
too many lips to
drip with sympathy.

Aeroplanes are
emergency reunions
of jocular strangers
emptied of reality.

I want to be
one of those strangers,
and cast a spell
of formaldehyde
expectations.

I
fell asleep
before the dark.
In the day
when sunlight
broke into the window,
there I was
in another place.
The morphine
relieving pain.
the thoughts
of fabricated living.
Visionary monsters
parading across
the floor.
I grew
into one
of them.
Long of hair
and short of breath.
Kneeling down
to shelter
the insects
flickering in
my head.
What eggshell
will ever
be the same?

We dreamed.
You and I.
Together.

Telephones ringing.
Doors locked.
Impressionable cups
left empty
without coffee.
Around and around
march the
ambulances,
sirens wailing
in imperfect tones.

I was dreaming.
Just me.
Alone.

Nobody had been
invited in.
Solitude, that
desired feeling,
of hiding
from the
jumping demons.

Once bitten,
twice shy.
Once dead,
now alive.

Grasp at nothing.
Not even worth
the dollar
on the price tag.
I
fell asleep
before the dark.
No wonder
the visions
were
distorted.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Mirrors are emptied of glare,
and so I sit like a vessel
waiting for the next pill.

Grey heart. It pulls and tugs
with uneasiness as it beats
towards the next stage.

Like marching feet, the
dim pounding is advancing
towards unfortunate results.

Glasses on. Eyes open.
Twisting this or that
possibility in the head.

Looking backwards does
not convince, at all, of the
stability of what is forward.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

She sat inside her ice-cream life
and guessed the number of
bingo markers it might take
to win the jackpot.
Sometimes she questioned why
so many people drove her
crazy. Insulted her.
She divided her friends and lovers
into good and bad directions.

It was raining outside when
she began to cook the supper.
The stove was hot she was cold.
She was always cold in her house,
in her ice vein kitchen with
the pretty white lace curtains
and the yellow-green walls.

Her problems could all be
isolated into one situation after
another. She light a cigarette.
Sitting at her table wondering
if she should cook rice or potatoes
with the meat. It didn't matter.
They'd wolf down the food
without a glance at her effort.

She found she was happier
when the kids were at school and
that man was at work doing whatever.
Impatience wasn't so much her statement
as was unconcern. So what,
she thought, as she dusted her ashes
into the ashtray.

Her memories could stretch so
far back, before this life even.
Yet she knew that what she knew
wasn't really very much at all.
Maybe he really loved her? Who knew?
For her it was only a situation.
She wondered if they'd remember
to take their shoes off at the door.
Her feelings could easily be hurt,
but on the other hand she often
neglected to express herself.
At half past five she'd put supper
on the table. They would sit around it.
Her family sharing the same table
and the same bathroom. Distance.
They were mutually ignorant of
each other.

She put out her cigarette, light another.
She wasn't afraid of cancer, just living.
Working man would be home soon,
right after the kids demanded home.
Sighing she stood up and pushed
the cat away with her foot, irritated.
Checked her purse. Bingo markers
neatly labelled. Another Friday night

Under nocturnal sky
an open fire
exonerates
tomorrow.
Here I sit
in supple ceremony,
advertising whims
and opinions.
Followers prostrate
in forms of
something different.
May we all be
as calm
as furious oceans.
Marine life drenched
with the bother
of persisting.
        There is a shadow here.
        I sense it.
        When sunshine
        thaws in
        multifaceted
        eclipses.
We are there too.
Suggestions of ourselves
resist the reticence
common to the dragging.
      There is a message here.
         I am it.
        Typed words on
        an old sheet of
        cardboard paper.
Why do placid days
always
erupt in ambient persuasions?
Shriek as if the
         planet was a
        waste of rhythm.

In the empty hours when thoughts
are dreams not realized, and hustles
of curtains cover windows and sight.
That is when the mourning begins.

Mourn for time that might not be.
For Grandchildren's giggles when
they are tickled, for their hugs when
they feel their little boy fears.

Mourn for conversations not be held,
for sharing that will not be shared.
For emotions that will not be felt, or
for experiences that will never occur.

In the quiet time when memories
are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle,
and clocks tick in impatient hurry
marching forwards, as they will do.

Pictures perform, these compelling
images that filter through the brain.
They warm and they freeze, each
according to their own special ways.

A storm of floating spectrum's that
sprinkle determination to stay slow.
Halt the spreading beads that collect
so forcefully from their birthplaces.

In the dawning of the coming ending
rises the many strands of what might be.
This, no one knows; no one emerges
with the bottles filled with answers.

I heard you going.
Your soft shoes making
delicate flashes on the floor.
My breathing was heavy
with the scent of dismissal.
Why did you come if you
planned to flee?
Sometimes the air is
as soft as you leaving.
I sense that it talks
but I am unable to
understand the words.
Heavy with hope the coping
suggests you are
returning soon.
Door is unlocked.
Sitting in the chair,
watching to see if
it opens.
When will you be back?